


Blankets

by PurpleProsaist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Angst and Fluff, Autistic Frodo Baggins, Cuddling & Snuggling, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, The One Ring - Freeform, hobbit kisses, probably more angst than fluff? more like tenderness in the midst of angst Idk, saw someone use that tag once & agree it should be a thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:40:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22577209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurpleProsaist/pseuds/PurpleProsaist
Summary: But he did not think of any blanket then. The word suddenly held no meaning to him, not even as he heard it, muttered, barely discernable. The voice sounded distant, as though carried from a long-lost home, wherever it may have laid or whatever that may have meant...Frodo falls asleep at the foot of Orodruin.
Relationships: Frodo Baggins/Sam Gamgee
Comments: 10
Kudos: 55





	Blankets

**Author's Note:**

> Threw together a little elaboration on a canon scene that always makes me feel things.
> 
> Be warned, I had no beta-reader, & I also just let myself go in regards to cheesiness. I don't regret it, personally. 
> 
> The first sentence and the only line of speech are both pulled directly from The Return of the King. These wordings are J. R. R. Tolkien's, not my own whatsoever!: "With a gasp Frodo cast himself on the ground." & "I didn't ought to have left my blanket behind."

With a gasp Frodo cast himself on the ground. He did not fight to keep his eyes open, the world about him falling numb and null. His conscious thought did not dare reach beyond the oppressive Weight of the One. 

It beckoned Frodo already; It appressed him to the ground. The pressure It gifted him there was a beautiful thing. Eerily familiar, every time had he settled in to sleep, too alike to the heavy mass of blankets he used to pile over his chest when he had once slept... elsewhere. Physical pressure had always been security, no matter, it seemed now, the source. 

Nothing had ever felt like this Ring. 

Promises of warmth — of an all-encompassing heat — were whispered, nearby, as though into his ear. Spoken in an unspeakable language of vivid thoughts. A molten hearth, just beyond the rock, deep from the foot of the Mountain. He could have the power to reach it in an instant if only he put It on. The chill was closing in all around, and Frodo was numb to his own body as though it were of ice itself, so easily shattered. So easily melted. 

Blearily, he longed to melt into It, to banish the cold even as he embodied it so. Through the One he would claim the power to live in spite of that or any contradiction. He could hardly move, but he might have had still enough energy to eventually raise a hand up to the chain. To shift just enough to get It onto a finger. 

Frodo needed the warmth. 

But he did not think of any blanket then. The word suddenly held no meaning to him, not even as he heard it, muttered, barely discernable. The voice sounded distant, as though carried from a long-lost home, wherever it may have laid or whatever that may have meant: 

"I didn't ought to have left my blanket behind." 

Then Frodo knew warmth again — not only the promise of it, but real warmth, immediate and intentful, upon his left side. It was not able to envelop him entirely, and he would shiver still awhile longer. But it was his Sam of course, he realized as he was gently pulled up and onto his side, into a safe and trembling embrace. 

A Weight fell away between them as Frodo's head came to rest tucked beneath Sam's chin. For a short while, Sam held his hand, and Frodo felt circles being drawn over his knuckles. Then Sam gripped his fingers, a sweetest little pressure, then began to massage his hand more thoroughly, and Frodo felt a gradual life returning to it. 

At length both Frodo's hands were gingerly tucked between their chests. Slowly at first, Sam's arms began to rub up and down Frodo's back. 

He hadn't the strength to speak nor to find the words he'd need. He never even opened his eyes. Sam was soft and alive and warm — _so warm,_ Frodo might have tried. That seemed to hold some meaning, but the repetition in Sam's touch was lulling him, sleep beginning to grip him once more. In lieu, he put all his energy into pressing his lips forward. 

Frodo did not know whether he kissed Sam's shoulder, or perhaps his chest. It meant all the same any way, and he did not consider what exactly he would have that be, not by any means of words. Frodo knew only what he felt and that he then heard a stifled sob, soft and close. Sam briefly shifted, and he felt him kiss his head, lips against Frodo's temple. 

Sam's hold tightened then, a gentle and secure squeeze that grounded Frodo and soothed his soul. Though his body ached all over, every bone weary from the previous day's privation, this was far better. 

Frodo slept then, as easily as he might have.

**Author's Note:**

> Trying to get over a fear of reusing words by doing it on purpose. In a way that hopefully has some sorta portrayal effect? Ultimately people falling asleep don't have their full vocabulary. Which doesn't necessarily restrict me 100% as third-person narrator, but playing with some narrative distancey ideas is fun sometimes! And if I'm gonna keep writing samfro, and I'm gonna, some same themes and terms and things are gonna keep coming up again. Fandom fixation & reiterating is a genuine joy, oops. 
> 
> I'd love to hear your thoughts, if you'd care to share them! Any comments to spare? Either way, thanks so much for checking out this page!


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